#cityelfweek25

Now the scent had long since faded, but the silk remained, a physical reminder of his cowardice, of the connection he had severed with his own hands.

He untangled himself from the threadbare sheets and padded across the cold stone floor to the small table where a handful of books sat stacked beside an oil lamp. Reading had become his refuge in the quiet hours, another gift she had given him, teaching him letters with infinite patience until he could lose himself in stories that had nothing to do with slavery or mages or the endless weight of his past.

But tonight, even the prospect of escape through words felt hollow. His fingers traced the worn leather binding of the topmost volume, a collection of Antivan poetry she had pressed into his hands months ago with that crooked smile that made his chest ache.

"I thought you might like this one," she had said. "Some of it's quite scandalous."

Everything came back to her. Every small pleasure, every moment of peace he had managed to carve out of his wretched existence, she had touched it all, made it better, made it his. And he had thrown it away.

Fenris pushed the books aside and descended to the wine cellar, selecting a bottle from the well-stocked collection that had come with the mansion. The vintage was one of the Aggregio Pavali, expensive enough that it might dull the sharp edges of his self-loathing for a few blessed hours. The irony wasn't lost on him, surrounded by luxury, drowning in plenty, yet feeling more empty than he had even in the slave quarters of Minrathous.

Three years... Three years since he had held her in his arms and felt, for one impossible night, like he belonged somewhere. Like he was worthy of something beyond mere survival.

The wine burned going down, but not enough to scorch away the memory that rose unbidden behind his eyes.

Her room in the estate, candlelight flickering across stone walls lined with books and maps and the comfortable clutter of a life fully lived. He had been waiting by the fire when she returned from whatever business had kept her out so late, his heart hammering as he tried to find the courage to say what had driven him from his empty mansion into the night.

"Fenris?" Her voice had been soft, surprised to find him there. "Is everything all right?"

He had meant to say something clever, something that would explain why he was there without revealing the desperate ache that had consumed him. Instead, he had stood and kissed her, pouring three years of longing into the press of his lips against hers.

She had kissed him back. Maker's breath, she had kissed him back like she had been waiting for him, like this moment was worth every frustration and every careful distance they had maintained. Her hands had cupped his face with such tenderness that he had nearly wept from it.

Fenris took another long pull from the bottle, but the wine could not wash away the crystal clarity of that memory. Every detail was carved into his mind with the precision of his lyrium brands, the way her breath had hitched when he traced his fingers along her jaw, the soft sound she made when he gathered her close, the impossible trust in her eyes as she led him to her bed.

They came together with desperate, frenzied need, as if the years of careful distance had built a dam that finally burst. Clothes were torn away with shaking hands, buttons scattered across the floor in their haste to feel skin against skin. She was wild in his arms, demanding and fierce, and when she pushed him back against the pillows and took control, he thought he might die from the intensity of it.

When she pressed her lips to his throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear, he gasped at the claiming intensity of it, a mark of possession that he wore like a badge of honor for days afterward.

"There," she had whispered against his neck, her breath warm on the spot she had claimed. "Now everyone will know you're spoken for."

Even as he had pulled away from her in the days that followed, even as he built walls between them with careful words and practiced distance, he had treasured that fading mark on his skin. When it finally disappeared completely, he had mourned its loss like a death.

But afterward, when the desperate hunger had been sated, he had rolled her beneath him and loved her with infinite tenderness. Her hands had mapped every scar, every brand, every part of him that he had learned to hate, and she had found beauty there. He had watched her face in the candlelight, memorized the love that shone in her eyes, the way she looked at him as if he were something precious rather than broken.

In the quiet that followed, she had curled against his side, her head pillowed on his chest, one arm thrown possessively across his waist. He had watched her drift toward sleep, marveling at the trust implicit in her relaxation, the way her breathing had deepened and evened as she surrendered consciousness in his arms.

For perhaps an hour—maybe two, he had held her and felt something he had never known before. Not just contentment, but peace. His mind, usually a chaos of hypervigilance and remembered trauma, had gone quiet. His body, conditioned to constant readiness for flight or fight, had relaxed completely. The lyrium brands that burned day and night had cooled to mere warmth against his skin.

He had belonged somewhere. With someone. For the first time since the ritual that had carved light into his flesh, he had been exactly where he was meant to be.

She had smiled in her sleep, some dream bringing joy to her face, and he had pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. This, he had thought. This is what happiness feels like.

That was when the doubt had crept in.

What was he doing here? What right did he have to hold this brilliant, powerful woman while she slept? She was a mage, the thing he had been trained to fear, to despise. She was nobility, born to command, while he was a slave who had stolen his freedom through violence and blood. She was everything good and bright in this world, and he was...

He was a weapon. A thing. A man so broken that even his dreams were nightmares.

The peace had cracked then, splintering under the weight of a lifetime's conditioning. What happened when Danarius found him? When the magister's hunters tracked him to Kirkwall and discovered that the runaway slave had dared to touch someone like her? Hawke would become a target, a weakness to exploit, a tool to ensure his compliance.

He had lain there in the growing dawn light, holding the woman he loved while his mind conjured a hundred ways his past could destroy her. The contentment he had felt began to sour, replaced by a familiar taste of ash and fear.

By the time she woke, he had already retreated behind walls of ice and distance. The confusion in her eyes when he pulled away, the hurt that she tried so hard to hide when he spoke of how this had been a mistake— that had nearly broken his resolve. But he had held fast to his certainty that loving her was the cruelest thing he could do to them both.

Now, three years later, he sat alone in his empty mansion and knew himself for the fool he was.

Fenris drained the bottle and let it fall from nerveless fingers to shatter against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the silence like the breaking of something that could never be repaired.

He had thought he was protecting her. Instead, he had watched her withdraw into herself, not completely, for she still commanded with quiet authority and threw herself into danger to save strangers who would never know her name. Her wit remained sharp, perhaps sharper than before, but her sarcasm had gained a cutting edge that could slice deeper than any blade. She still smiled, still fought like a force of nature, but there was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before, a distance that only someone who had known her intimately could recognize. He had stood guard while Sebastian made pretty speeches about faith and devotion, had watched Anders poison the air around her with his obsessions and barely leashed rage.

Through it all, Hawke had remained gracious, professional, functional. But the woman who had whispered "beautiful" against his throat, who had made him feel worthy of peace, had retreated behind a mask of efficient competence that even her closest friends could not fully penetrate.

He had done that to her. His cowardice, his fear, his certainty that he was poison to everything he touched, he had put that guardedness in her eyes as surely as if he had driven a blade through her heart.

The red scarf around his wrist felt like a shackle, like the chains he had worn in Minrathous. He had bound himself to her service while denying them both the deeper connection they had tasted in that one perfect night. He was close enough to protect her, to watch over her, to die for her if necessary, but never again close enough to hold her while she slept.

Outside his window, Kirkwall stirred with the first hints of dawn. Soon enough, there would be another crisis, another threat to the city that would require their intervention. She would send word, and he would come, and they would fight side by side with the careful professionalism of former lovers who had learned not to hope for more.

But tonight, in the darkness of his self-imposed exile, Fenris closed his eyes and let himself remember what peace had felt like. The weight of her head on his chest. The softness of her breathing. The way his marks had cooled to mere warmth under her touch, as if her presence alone could quiet the pain that was his constant companion.

One night. One perfect, impossible night when he had belonged somewhere, to someone, and it had been enough to sustain him through three years of self-inflicted exile.

It should have been the beginning of everything. Instead, he had made it an ending, too afraid to believe that he deserved the peace she offered, too broken to trust that love could be anything other than another form of chains.

Then he turned his attention to the dwarf. "Oghren, you magnificent bastard," Zevran continued, gesturing toward the dwarf who was examining the gate's hinges with a critical eye, "I believe your expertise with those lovely axes of yours would be best utilized right here, where anything attempting to break through will find itself properly introduced to dwarven hospitality."

"Hah!" Oghren barked, hefting his weapons. "Been too long since I had a proper fight without having to watch where I swing. These sodding darkspawn won't know what hit 'em."

Everything under control. Everything proceeding according to plan.

Zevran allowed himself one quick glance toward the inner city, where smoke rose in thick black columns against the blood-red sky. Somewhere in that maze of destruction, Alara was making her way toward Fort Drakon and whatever destiny waited for her there.

I will be back.

The certainty in her voice when she'd made that promise had been absolute, unshakeable. But then, she had always been fierce in her convictions, his beautiful, deadly warden. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place—that unwavering determination, that refusal to yield even when the odds were impossible.

Even when those odds included facing an Archdemon.

But underneath the professional competence, underneath the easy banter and casual confidence, something darker stirred.

A horn sounded from the walls above, deep, mournful, urgent. The warning they had all been expecting.

Zevran drew his blades in one smooth motion, the familiar weight of them steadying in his hands.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, drawing in a breath that tasted of smoke and death and the distant salt wind from Denerim's harbor.

If there is anything in this world that gives a damn about what we have found in each other in the midst of all this madness... let us both keep our promises today.

She has given me something I never thought to have. Do not let me fail her now.

The first darkspawn rounded the corner, and Zevran's eyes snapped open, every trace of vulnerability vanishing behind the cold professionalism of the assassin he had been trained to be.

His blades sang as they cut through the air, and he lost himself in the deadly dance he knew better than his own heartbeat.

Time became meaningless, there was only the rhythm of combat, the burn in his muscles, the careful calculation of when to advance and when to give ground.

A hurlock's sword whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. Zevran spun away with fluid grace, his own blade opening the creature's throat in the same motion.

"Ha! You filthy son of a broodmother," he called out with breathless laughter, already engaging the next opponent. "You'll have to be much faster than that if you want to dance with me!"

The taunt earned him a snarl from another hurlock, but the creature's rage made it sloppy, predictable. Zevran's daggers found the gaps in its makeshift armor with practiced ease.

He refocused on the task at hand, on the promise he'd made to hold this position. She had trusted him with this, and he wouldn't fail her.

Then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything changed.

A brilliant column of light erupted from the direction of Fort Drakon, piercing the blood-red sky like a spear thrown by the gods themselves. For a moment, the entire battlefield seemed frozen in that impossible radiance, darkspawn and defenders alike caught in attitudes of violence, faces turned upward toward the beacon that blazed above the city's heart.

The light pulsed once, twice, and then faded, leaving afterimages burned into Zevran's vision.

Silence fell like a curtain.

The darkspawn around him began to twitch, their corrupted features contorting as if they were waking from some terrible dream. Then, as one, they turned and fled. Not the organized retreat of a defeated army, but the panicked flight of creatures suddenly freed from a compulsion they could no longer bear.

Zevran lowered his bloodied daggers, chest heaving, and watched in stunned disbelief as the horde that had thrown itself against their defenses simply... left. Scattered into the ruins of Denerim like shadows fleeing the dawn.

"Well," Oghren said into the sudden quiet, his voice hoarse from battle-cries. "That's new."

But Zevran's eyes remained fixed on the distant tower where that miraculous light had blazed, his heart hammering against his ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of battle.

Somewhere in that tower, Alara was either celebrating her victory or lying dead beside the corpse of the monster she had slain.

Please, he found himself thinking, the word a desperate whisper in the depths of his mind. Please let her promise be true. Please let "always" mean what I need it to mean.

The thought had barely formed when his body moved without conscious command. One moment he was standing frozen among the debris of battle, the next he was vaulting over the barricade, his feet hitting the cobblestones at a dead run.

"Zevran!" Wynne's voice called out behind him, sharp with concern. "Where are you—"

But he was already gone, sprinting toward the heart of the city. Toward Fort Drakon. Behind him came the sound of pursuit—Alistair's footfalls, Oghren's gruff curses, even Shale's grinding rumble following in their wake. But there was only the tower looming larger with each desperate stride, only the need that drove him forward.

The fort's ancient walls finally loomed before him, scarred by combat but still standing. The great oak door hung askew on its hinges, reduced to splinters. Beyond it lay only darkness.

Zevran skidded to a stop at the base of the steps, his chest heaving as he stared up at that yawning entrance. Torchlight flickered weakly from within, casting dancing shadows that revealed nothing.

Behind him, Alistair caught up, breathing hard. Further back, Oghren struggled with the distance.

Then—movement in the shadows.

Leliana stepped into the torchlight, her red hair disheveled, her bow still in hand.

Sten emerged from the darkness, his massive form moving with careful steps. In his arms, cradled against his chest like something infinitely precious, lay a figure in silver armor. Red hair spilled over Sten's arm, catching the flickering light.

Alara.

Motionless. Still. Her face pale in the torchlight.

The world tilted. Zevran's breath caught in his throat, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob tearing free before he could stop it.

He was flying up the stone steps before conscious thought returned, his daggers clattering forgotten to the ground. "Is she—" he started, but his voice cracked.

Sten's dark eyes met his as he reached the top of the steps. "She lives," the qunari said simply, his deep voice steady and sure. "Unconscious, but breathing."

Zevran's knees nearly buckled as relief crashed over him in waves, so intense it was almost painful.

Without hesitation, he reached out, and Sten carefully transferred Alara's limp form into his arms. She was warm and he could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing against his chest.

"Alara?" Alistair's voice came from behind him, tight with the same fear that had driven Zevran across the city. "Is she all right?"

"She lives," Zevran managed, his voice rough with emotion as he cradled her closer. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he could smell the familiar scent of her hair beneath the smoke and blood.

Zevran sank down onto the stone steps, cradling Alara against his chest, unable to do anything but hold her and feel the steady rhythm of her breathing. The others were talking around him, Alistair asking questions, Wynne offering to examine her, Leliana's soft voice explaining what had happened in the tower, but their words seemed to come from very far away.

All that mattered was the warm weight of her in his arms, the proof that she had kept her promise after all.

Always, she had said. Always.

A soft sound escaped her lips, barely more than a breath, and Zevran's attention snapped back to her face with laser focus. Her eyelids fluttered, dark lashes stirring against pale cheeks.

"Alara?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion he couldn't quite contain.

Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, blinking against the torchlight. Then her gaze found his face, and something in her expression shifted, recognition, relief, love.

She was looking up at him with those green eyes he had thought he might never see again, and Zevran felt his own eyes burn with unshed tears that he couldn't quite hold back. They clung to his lashes, threatening to spill over, but he didn't care. She was alive. She was here. She was looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"Mi amor," he breathed, the endearment falling from his lips like a prayer of thanksgiving. "You came back to me."

A weak smile curved her lips, and she lifted one trembling hand to touch his cheek. Her fingers came away damp.

"Always," she whispered, her voice barely audible but carrying all the weight of the promise she had made in that blood-soaked courtyard hours ago. "I told you... always."

The tear he had been fighting finally escaped, trailing down his cheek to where her fingers had touched. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, gentle and reverent, as if she might disappear if he held her too tightly.

"The Archdemon?" he asked against her skin, though he already knew the answer from the beacon they had all witnessed, from the way the darkspawn had fled.

"Dead." Her voice was stronger now, more certain. "It's over, Zevran. The Blight is over."

Around them, the others had gone quiet, giving them this moment of reunion in the midst of victory. But Zevran barely noticed. There was only Alara, alive and warm in his arms, her green eyes bright with exhaustion and triumph and love.

"When I saw that light," he said softly, "when the darkspawn fled... I thought I might lose my mind waiting to know if you had survived it."

"I made you a promise." She shifted slightly in his arms, trying to sit up more, and he helped her, keeping her steady against his chest. "Did you really think I would break it?"

He laughed, the sound slightly shaky but genuine. "No. No, I suppose I should have known better, my dear Warden. You are far too stubborn to let something as small as an Archdemon keep you from coming home."

"Home," she repeated, and something in the way she said it made his heart skip. Not the alienage where she had grown up, not the camp they had shared with their fellow Wardens, but here—in his arms, wherever they happened to be.

"Home," he confirmed, pressing another kiss to her temple. "Always home, mi amor."

The prayers he had whispered in desperation, the pleas he had sent to whatever gods might listen, all of them had been answered in this single moment. She was alive, she was his, and whatever came next, they would face it together.

Just as she had promised.

His voice travelled, a rumble behind him, the light and lovely drip drip drip of his vowels and his consonants, the ligatures and aspirants of Qunlat. The words like a poem, and even Saira knew it by heart, now. A gazelle leaping from word to word, to dance.

Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.

She mouthed the words under her breath as he spoke them. All of his being turned, each night, to the business of tending to the sharpness of his soul, like one would trim a garden, tend to battle wounds. No doubt had ever torn him from his meaning—save for when Asaala had been taken from him—and no doubt would ever tear him from the making and re-making of his duty to the Qun. When all else broke within and outwith her, Sten stood as bulwark, as hope.

He repeated his prayer as many times as was necessary. He brought to light all darkness, all shame, the detritus of each day, and threw it to the fire with his intonation. And when he was done with Asaala, he took off the dar-saam and the vitaar, and stripped away the layers of authority to simply sit, with no pretense, as Sten. Who was weapon and did not cease to be weapon just because he had peeled off his clothes, but showed to Saira the flipside of the blade; the guts and love that the armour protected.

He sat a few moments more, shirtless, watching the stars Saira could also glimpse through the flaps of their shared tent. And she ached to be able to read his expression.

“Kadan,” he sighed, as if only now remembering there was a world of solid things beyond the teachings and the prayer, “the stars are strange, here. They are not the same as in the South. Even if we are closer to Seheron than we were, they are not the stars of my people. Or of yours.”

She crawled out of their tent and wrapped her arms around his broad, strong chest. He tensed under her touch, shoulders haunching. Relaxed again after a moment, as he settled.

“Sten, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I will never understand the touching. My affections for you are clear, as are yours for me. The touching is superfluous.”

She kissed the side of his head, and laughed.

“You seemed to understand it plenty, last night.”

“We both have bodies, do we not? There is no harm in giving each other what we need.”

She hummed, and shivered at the thought. But there was no want in her when she sat in Sten’s lap, her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms around his neck. The confines of their relationship shifted, rose like a tide. They had been lovers and then friends and then lovers again. Ten years of finding patterns, shifting weight, heart meeting heart, no need for definitions. They’d shared beds and shared spoons and shared fears—they could share pleasure, too.

His hands remained by his side, still and immutable. She was a small child, and he was the great grandfather tree to hide in when all the world grew loud. The thought made her smirk. Sten had no reaction, and no interest in asking, and she expected neither. They made no requests of each other, no demand for comfort or response. Just freedom, with Sten, who knew with such certainty and at all moments who he was, and what that being made him wish for. Sometimes, it was her body and the warmth of her body. Other times, like tonight, it was being reminded that the stars could be strange, but the hands clutching him to the ground would always be the same.

She ran a knuckle against his cheekbone. She leaned close, chest to chest, and chased his heartbeat with hers.

“Can you tell me again?”

“Tell you what?”

“Of shokra toh ebra.”

“I have told you a thousand times before. What more could you learn from it? Or are you a child, told a million times why a chore is necessary, still failing to grasp the imortance of it?”

“I just like to hear it. You tell it the best.”

“I am no Tamassran. I am no Ashkaari.”

“But you are Sten. My Sten.”

“If I am to be anyone’s, then so should you. It is only fair. But I doubt you would let anyone declare such power over you.”

“Am I not? I am kadan.”

“So is Asaala. Are you a sword?”

Was she not? The blade at the end of the Blight’s fist. A knife drawn in the dark, with whispers in the hilt, with ichor blood, despair.

“I am not.”

“For you are both my heart. Through you both, my body bends to the demands of the Qun.”

“Tell me then, tell me! Shokra toh ebra—”

“Yes, yes. Through struggle, you find who you are.”

“But tell me the story.”

He sighed, and rolled his eyes. Delightful. She loved to get under his skin. She giggled and giggled, clutching his face as if to kiss him.

He began: “Ashkaari Koslun had risen from the sea. Great blight had come to his people and to his land; like locusts it devoured bones, children, dreams. Ruination followed in its wake—all was poisoned. The very blood of the world was poison–are you mouthing the words with me?”

She grinned. Someone more kind would have called her “shit-eating.” Sten called it:

“Ignorant. You are worse than a child. Dogs lick their own genitals over and over, hoping it will clean them. The futility of the act doesn’t drive them mad, they are too foolish to understand. But I understand. Why do you torture me so?”

She had no grin, now. Instead was deadly serious. Her hands hadn’t moved from the sides of his face: she tilted him downwards, so she could look him in the eyes. They widened. He pried her hands off of him and held them. His thumb ran over her knuckles, the only concession his stony demeanour allowed to their love.

“My answer has not changed, and will not change.”

The question was there but unsaid. She’d asked it a thousand times: as futile as it was desperate. Saira bit her lip, and her gaze travelled. Sten’s arms, his chest, his throat, his lips. The dents the dar-saam left on his skin. The surety of them ached in her heart. Flesh, solid and immutable, made beautiful by duty. She leaned down and kissed the marks on his shoulder, as if she could devour them, make them hers. Subsume what they represented into herself, become what she ate.

She ran a trail of kisses, up Sten’s arms, down his chest. Her movement made awkward and constricted, Sten was still clutching her hands. He let go to hold her up. In the moonlight her dark skin was almost blue, and his was lovely, lovely, rough and scarred and tender like his touches.

She would not beg. She had begged, but that was past. Her despair had no words left; she was adrift.

“I have said all that I needed to say about this, and will say no more.”

All her life, the whole world telling her no. No, she could not save her mother. No, she could not save Nelaros. Or Shianni. Or herself.

No, she could not die. Alistair and Morrigan had made sure of that.

Sten’s refusal, the refusal he had gifted her for nearly a decade, hurt most of all. He had decided this for her, evaluated her worth against the demands of the Qun, and found her lacking.

“This isn’t one of the Cantos. I’m not an acolyte you should be sending away three times until she returns a fourth time, finally ready to convert!”

She peeled herself off of him and fully expected to see anger in his face. But Sten avoided her gaze.

“How long have I been asking?”

“Too long.”

“Sten, you have shown me the beauty of the Qun. The clarity of purpose. All things, oriented towards meaning. Don’t you think, that after all that I’ve seen—all that’s been done to me—that I don’t deserve that comfort? You’ve called me Kadan, Ashkaari, Basalit-an… In all but name, and yet you refuse me this one mercy. This one kindness. Why? Worthy to travel with, worthy to share your bed and your meals with, but unworthy of this? Why?”

Crickets answered, their nightly song a chorus to her grief. Because this was, and she knew it, this was grief. She yearned for clarity. A sense to this life she was undeserving of, that she’d cheated herself into by being loved.

Sten sat. Unmovable. Unmoved, she thought, but then he looked away and his eyes glistened.

“…Sten?”

She worried. He’d never wept. She’d joke he couldn’t. But he worked through the pain in his jaw and his hands, clenching and unclenching them.

“I couldn’t.”

She had to come closer to hear him. He spoke like a confession.

“Kadan, I couldn’t. And not because you are unworthy. Far from it. I couldn’t, because…”

He flinched, disgusted at the conflict inside him. She was close again. Reaching for him again. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t reciprocate either. She reached and she was alone; he was breaking something between them to give her the truth.

Because she deserved it.

“If you converted. If you joined the Qun, with your body and your heart. With your soul. Kadan… The Tamassrans would take you from me. We would be apart.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would not be Sten, or Adaari, or Antaam at all. With your daggers, your stealth, your poisons, your skill with words…”

“I would be Ben Hassrath.”

“Yes. You are an elf.”

“I was also the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Is she not dead? It’s been so long, Kadan. Few in the north would recognise you. You have changed.”

She reached up, and brushed a tear away from Sten’s cheek, “So have you.”

He scoffed. “The Qun demands we welcome all who wish to convert, should they be worthy. You are more than worthy, Kadan. And I am ashamed, that I have kept you from our teachings for so long. But I cannot… we have traveled together for so long.”

“Did you lie to me, Sten?”

“I hate the very thought of lying. To you most of all."

“A decade ago. You said you’d received new orders. That your Kithshok had told you to stay in the south, and continue your investigations into how the Blight had come to pass.”

“That was not a lie.”

“Really?”

“I received my summons back to Par Vollen when we were in Kont-Aar.”

She did quick math. “Three years ago.”

“That is correct.”

“So you're–”

He gripped her hands, and stilled her words before she could speak them into truth.

“I have not abandoned the Qun. I have not abandoned Asaala. I have not abandoned my duty to the orders my Kithshok gave me. Do I not wear the dar-saam? The vitaar?”

“You do.”

She nodded. Why wouldn't he nod too? She peered up at him and tried to catch his gaze, his eyes hard and haunted in his face.

"Sten. My sweet, foolish friend. Sten, you do not have to prove to me your worth. As a warrior. As a member of the Beresaad. As anything. I mean, look at me! I've made a piss poor job of living my whole life, so I have. I was a shit Andrastian, in my youth. Too scared of my grief to even light a lantern for my mother. I was a shit daughter. A shit wife to Alistair. I was an even worse Hero of Ferelden, let alone Warden-Commander. Look at me, my love. Look," and she smiled when he did, that connection re-established, that love to share in, "I've this whole life Morrigan and Alistair have gifted me, and a better person than me would have been grateful for each and every breath. But I'm not. I've made my peace with it. I can make my peace with being a shit Qunari, too."

His expression had drained, no misery nor anguish. Just Sten's usual illegible demeanour.

"I am ashamed." he said. It was as if he hadn't even spilled a single tear. Saira's relief was palpable: the Sten she knew, the Sten she understood, was back. She held his grief, still, but she could gift it back to him just as gently.

The evening summer sun beat down upon the marketplace. The elven vendors kept under their cart awnings, the limited shade barely helping to protect sensitive ears and eyes.  The errand children moved slower than normal, the heat too oppressive even for their normally gleeful antics. Hawkers kept mostly quiet, conversation between them all kept to a tired, but almost excited hum.

Crows darted back and forth above the streets. Glints of armour and blades glinting in the high summer rays. As they drew closer to the market’s center, the Vendehal came into full, spectacular view.

Streamers waved lazily in the sticky  breeze, yet despite this, a small crowd had begun to form.

At the market center, food stalls formed a ring around the mighty tree, offering cooling drinks and fresh, sticky fruits to those who milled about. The mothers whistled for their children, whose foot falls echoed out on the newly paved roads, rushing to join the crowd. The sound of carts being wheeled away, of awnings slamming shut sent thrills down the growing thrall of people's spines.

The crows soon settled on a balcony, overlooking the ancient tree. One pulled a bottle of Antivan Red from a pouch, as the other set two, road-weary chalices upon the balcony’s railing.

The sounds from below had grown steadily. Excitement becomes infectious and spreads out into the surrounding neighborhoods. Coins and treats exchanged hands, and when a hush suddenly rippled through from a side street, everyone quickly cleared the roads.

The crows perked up at the sudden silence, each clinking  a full glass of wine with the other in salute before downing the contents. The procession was soon to start.

The sun had begun to cast long shadows across the crowd as the first maidens emerged from the shadowed avenues all around the Vendehal. Banners, pennants and wreaths of flowers in hand, they proceeded in solemn silence, each leaving their burdens strung upon darkened lamp poles and cart corners. They took position inside the open ring around the old witch, and waited, faces beaming in excitement, eyes and lips painted crimson, all the while their white dress clung to them in the fading summer heat.

As the shadows lengthened, the mood of the crowd continued to grow more electric. Breaths held, then let out in a rush of giggles and amused murmurs spread through them. Children tugged on some of the maidens' dresses, admiring the embroidery found on their hems- The maidens did their best to simply nod, but it was not seen as a bad omen to let words of appreciation to slip out.

The crows poured a second glass, as the sun dipped even from their view, and a low whistle began to rise from the darkness.

With baited breath , the crowd - young and old alike watched the sky, knowing what was about to occur, but filled with giddy anxiousness none-the-less. The whistles grew higher, and in more numbers, until suddenly a resounding POP, colored lights burst forth in the sky. Glittering bits of magic came cascading down upon the upturned faces as cheers went out throughout the market streets.More lights joined them, as well as the mages who had sent them aloft. Flames and butterflies of all colors sparkled and shone above and among the crowd as they too joined the maidens in the ring. 

The magical displays continued, but now the effects were more practical; the lamps each burst to life, fire of every color casting dancing shadows across all who had gathered. Ice crystals began to grow along door frames, cooling the crowd all while pinpricks of veil fire danced along the maiden’s brows.

Some of the town elders bowed their heads at the display, ancient superstitions still strong. Their faith, though tested all of their lives, something they still held dear. Their fore mothers and fathers had worshiped the Gods, many of their children worshiped the shems Maker, and the younger generations... well they barely believed in anything . At least until the 5th blight.  They believed in monsters, and the failure of their elders. They believed in the horrors that war and monsters could bring. Yet despite this, as the elders in the crowd prayed and watched as the children enjoyed the displays of magic, they could tell that they would continue, believing in themselves at least.

The mages among them continued to cast, all previously hidden amongst out of site sheds, dark, foreboding alleys. Their parents had kept them safe and scared, the chantry  too cruel to the ‘knife ears’, the Dalish unwilling to parlay. Seeing those that had been able to finally come out of shadows since the end of the blight brought pride to the breast of many,

One of the crows, her hood blowing off, let out a loud ‘whoop’ at a particularly bright burst of magic. Despite the excited quiet below, no one paid her any mind, save her fellow, who let out a throaty laugh.

With that loud outburst of magic, the crowd was suddenly sunk into darkness, the lanterns snuffing out in a fizzle. The crowd gasped and giggled, shifting and whispering in anticipation, the only light left the veil fire eerily flickering above the maidens.  Then even those fell dark.

BOOOM Crackle FizzzzTTttzzz!

A pillar of blood red fire arose from the alley facing the front of the ribbon strewn Vendehal. The maidens and mages turned as one to face it. Arms outstretched, wide smiles upon their faces and the blush of youth upon their cheeks, fangs sharp and eyes glowing in the magic light.

Flashing steel appeared through the flames, twin sabers sharp as the fangs of the archdemon that had been felled in their very city.  The blades moved languidly side to side before being pulled back. Then, just as fast as they had appeared, she came in an acrobatic flip.

The Bloody Bride, the former alienage's symbol of peace, of change, of Evlen glory was before them. White dress shimmering, hem died dread, the symbol of the phoenix crimson across her face.

The female crow nearly choked on her wine at the Brides appearance. Her own phoenix blazing across her pale flesh. “She- she’s supposed to be me?!” Her partner burst into laughter.

“I knew you han’t actually been to one of these yet,” he brushed a tear from one eye before swiftly refilling her cup. 

“I knew they had the chance to enjoy their freedoms thanks to the King, but.. this?!” She nearly dropped her wine in her haste to pop up an onto the balcony’s railing, perching and leering like a grotesquiry, eyes focused on the young womans face.

“It seems, you inspired your neighbours far more than you had realised when you ended that liIittlee thing known as the 5th Blight.” He smiled cheekily at her, rising to take her wine out of her hand before she let herself jump to the grown below.

The Bride strode towards the ancient witch of a tree with purpose, blades raised above her head, her steps moving in a slow and deliberate dance. Her golden eyes and hair  gleamed in the darkness, while her white dress billowed around her like whisps of smoke. She bowed low to the tree, arms and blades extended up and behind her, hair trailing on the cobbles. Ever so slowly she brought her head up, her eyes shifting between those in the crowd, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips.

‘IN WAR, VICTORY” Her voice rang out clear into the night. THen, letting out a slow breath, she finally returned to her full height, her smile growing. She tossed her blades into the air, jumping up in a  twirling leap before catching the blades.

“IN PEACE, VIGILENCE!” The crowd roared back in excitement, claps and whoops echoing throughout the city.

The crow stood just at the crowds edge, her eyes watching the Bloody Bride with awe and amusement. 

Jayen sits quietly, letting the healer work. Madame Beaufils circles around him with a trained eye, reaching out to touch his hair, ears, and face. He’s come a long way, in the fact that he doesn’t flinch at her touch. The Madame’s hands are surprisingly soft and warm. 

Josephine stays within arms reach, also. Jayen asked her not to leave for this, and she acquiesced. She remains alert, as the Madame finishes her inspection and turns to her. Jayen did not feel that she was the most happy about this situation, but she kept her professionalism. 

“Like I said before, I have never had my work performed on elves.” Inwardly, Jayen wants to softly laugh at the way the Madame holds herself back, but he’s much too polite to do so. Everyone in the room now was forced to commit to a certain level of decorum, and he certainly didn’t want to be the one to break it.

The Madame continues with pursed lips. “So, like I said, I cannot guarantee the results you seek. My work is best performed on a blank canvas, and the Lord Inquisitor has had previous injury to muscle and skin, which would need to be worked around. It is… not ideal.”

“We are after realistic results, Madame. We understand your magic is best suited to that,” Josephine demures. Jayen can recognise the flattery, and so does Madame Beaufils, but she still accepts the compliment. 

“Yes… I am confident I can make the Inquisitor…” She seems to struggle for the word. “Passable, at the very least.” 

Jayen finds her endeavors to remain nice more funny than insulting. He ends up giving her a small grin, which the Madame seemed a little surprised by. 

It’s Jayen’s turn to speak. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us here. I empathize with the fact that we have delivered such a challenge to someone such as yourself, ” Jayen begins diplomatically. “But the truth is, I did not summon you here for this reason alone.” 

His wording is intentional. 

Madame Beaufils blinks hesitantly behind her mask.  It's a dainty, tiny thing -- enough to be considered polite and official in Orlaisian society, but small enough to not hide the best of her work that she had performed on herself. Jayen gives her a moment to collect herself, but then continues. 

He leans forwards in his seat, addressing the two women standing before him. Josephine -- he’s already had this talk with her. Already argued his case, fought to be heard, dared to disagree with her, and ultimately received her agreement. She still eyes him carefully in this moment, as if waiting for him to back down, to swoop in for the recovery -- but Jayen won’t. Not this time.

“Madame Beaufils, I wanted to offer you a position within our keep that would last longer than the job you are to perform on myself.” He gauges her reaction -- surprise, then confusion. 

“Lord Inquisitor… I will be happy to stay for the duration of your treatment. That is the standard I maintain across all my clients.”

“I understand. What I meant by that is -- I would like to employ you within the Inquisition, to perform treatment on a steady stream of patients that we would provide.”

The Madame is a little taken aback. This wasn’t her usual procedure. “...On… who?”

Jayen meets Josephine’s eyes one last time. She had a pursed look to her face, but she gave a small tilt of her head to continue. Truthfully, Jayen appreciated the support, even if it did look like she really didn’t want to be here for it. 

“On elves,” Jayen answers. He’s prepared for the reaction, and immediately holds up a hand to quell her response while he continues to explain. “I especially would like you to work on elves that have had their ears mutilated, and restore them to their proper shape.” 

A beat. Then two. The Madame sputters out a breath, seemingly wordless at the request. Her taut skin seems to be pulled tighter across her face, with the skin of her neck struggling to give her enough clearance to breathe. She’s fighting to keep the facade of civility, but Jayen walked into this room already prepared for the worst. 

“I -- Inquisitor, surely you have other healers within your organisation --”

“None with your specific skills,” Jayen explains gently. “To heal, to keep people alive -- yes, we can do that. We are doing that, and will keep doing that. But to restore something that is broken, or lost -- that is a skill you have perfected, Madame Beaufils, and that is something we wished to provide for the people.” 

“I…” she seemed to be looking for an exit, any way out. “I do not regrow things that are completely lost! I would have to mutilate their bodies further, take skin from another part in order to return to their ears --”

“We will explain that, and provide this service to anyone who wishes to proceed with it.” Most people would think that even Jayen’s patience has a limit. That statement was true, but to be honest -- someone like the Madame wasn’t even pushing it in the slightest. Jayen was willing to softly explain for as long as it would take. He wanted her on board, willingly. 

The fact that she was willing to be civil in the first place, to meet them on their territory in Skyhold -- it meant a recognition of his role as the Inquisitor. It meant that her beliefs could be moved, with time. 

“I…” Madame Beaufils still appeared to have been struck by the request. She wipes at her eyes under her mask. “I will have to think about it.” 

“You will have board within Skyhold for as long as you wish, Madame,” Jayen responds, a gentle dismissal, and she practically turns tail and runs out of the room. 

Josephine meets his eyes once again and this time, Jayen does laugh. It’s something quick and under his breath, but he smiles at her expression of exasperation. He’s not taking joy in it, but rather -- he felt… happy that Josephine was able to reach his side of understanding. To be willing to meet him all the way. 

“I still believe it would have been better to ask her that after she had completed the procedure on you, Inquisitor Harajatish,” Josephine grumbles delicately -- making it sound less like a complaint and more like a courteous admonishment. 

Jayen shakes his head, and repeats something she already knows. “I will not commit to the procedure unless my people can receive similar treatment.” 

Josephine sighs. “We could have fixed your breathing issues. Your lisp.” 

“I thought you liked my lisp?” 

“It’s charming, but that fact is highly subjective, my lord.” There’s the slightest bit of heat in her words that Jayen notices, and so he redirects. 

“I’m using my money for this, Josephine.” This was decided in one of the arguments they got into about it. How Josephine was concerned about using Inquisition funds for something that might have no limit. So Jayen volunteered all the personal  money that he and Prahash had accumulated in their travels. She couldn’t really say anything about that. 

And she still couldn’t. “I know. And I understand why this is important to you.” Jayen thought the to you was unnecessary, but they’re taking baby steps. 

“Thank you for your support, Josephine.” And he’s sincere about it. Gives her a smile. 

And thankfully, she smiles back. 

[Author's note: I conceptualised this scene before I had even written the first chapter of For the People, and decided the free day prompt was a good excuse to finally write it out! In Jayen's canon, the Inquisition is less of a militia and more of a disaster relief organisation. The things that play out in this scene is kind of a treat -- it's not fully necessary for survival, but it's something he really wanted to commit to with all his power as Inquisitor.

In Dragon Age canon, I think this fact appears only in codex entries and never really shown in game. It's said that the masters of elven slaves would mutilate their ears and cut them off, so they wouldn't look like elf ears anymore.

Jayen considers himself very lucky that this has never happened to him. He grew up around many people who had this done to them. He still needs the cosmetic treatment, because he has a broken nose and jaw that healed improperly, and its causing him constant discomfort. But as in the excerpt -- he's not willing to get this treated unless all of his people can get treated as well. He doesn't want to be a City Elf Inquisitor who grows further away from his people.